


Sweet Surrender

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [16]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is a horrible patient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



There's a knock on the door. Athos freezes. He's covered in paint, almost as much as the canvas in front of him. Dark green and brown smudges adorn his oversized hoodie, interrupted by the occasional blob of bright orange and yellow; a fine dust of gold powder is covering his naked toes. Another knock, accompanied by Aramis' voice. "Athos?" 

He sounds urgent. Athos frowns, pulls the hoodie over his head, lets it drop to the floor and goes to open the door in his white undershirt – just a few inches. "What?" 

Aramis' face on the other side of the gap looks both worried and guilty. "I think Porthos is sick," he says. "Can you come and help me make him stay at home?" 

Athos frowns. All thoughts of his painting are immediately forgotten in view of this unexpected crisis. "What do you mean, sick?" he asks as he slides through the door and closes it behind him. 

Aramis lets out a little huff of relief, as if he'd been uncertain of Athos' willingness to lend him his support. He rakes his fingers through his hair the way he does when he's nervous and unsure of himself. "I think he has a fever," he says in a low voice. "But it's difficult to tell with him, because he's always so strong – and of course he won't admit he's feeling poorly." 

Athos lets out his own huff – one of annoyance and helpless fondness. "Of course." 

He accompanies Aramis to the front door, where Porthos is in the process of shrugging on his jacket. "What's this?" he asks when he sees the two of them together, immediately suspicious. "Gangin' up on me, are you?" 

He sounds unusually peevish, and there's a brightness to his eyes Athos doesn't quite like. "Let me feel your forehead," he orders. 

Porthos narrows his eyes at him. "No." 

Athos glares. "You will keep still and let me feel your forehead, or I will call the Captain, Flea _and_ my Mother to gang up on you." 

That gets a little grin out of Porthos. "Not Charon?" 

Athos huffs. "No. He is the worst enabler ever when it comes to you. Now come down here, Porthos. You know I cannot reach up quite so high without straining myself." 

Porthos sighs and relents, and stoops over to give Athos easier access to his head. His skin is hot to the touch, and he closes his eyes when Athos' hand smooths back his curls. "You are a fool," Athos tells him softly. "Take off that jacket, and your shoes, and go back to bed." 

"But they need me at the orphanage," Porthos argues. "The kids are sick." 

"So are you," Athos points out. "The Captain will arrange matters. My Mother will help out, if need be. You know she will." 

That seems to do the trick. Porthos sighs, straightens, and takes off his jacket. He encounters Aramis' worried glance, and his shoulders sag. "Sorry, kitten. I should have listened to you." 

"Yes, you should have," Athos drawls. He rubs his hands up his naked arms and shoulders and looks from Aramis to Porthos and back again. He frowns. "Shouldn't you be at work, Aramis?" 

"Constance is visiting her parents," he says softly. "We're closed for the week." He's not looking at Athos while he speaks, but at Porthos – is watching him take off his shoes, and reaches out when there's a light sway to his movements. 

"I'm fine," Porthos says when he comes back up, but he's flushed, and slightly out of breath. Athos clears his throat, and Porthos grins – like a little boy caught being naughty. "Yeah, alright," he murmurs. "Not fine then. But I won't fall over nevertheless." 

"Fair enough," Athos admits. "Off to bed with you." He watches Aramis lead him away, and returns to his own room to get dressed properly. 

When he returns to the living area in clean jeans and a warm pullover, Porthos is on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a book in his hands. "This is not your bed," Athos points out. 

Porthos looks up from his book, and pouts. "It's borin' in bed, and I'm _fine_ ," he insists. "I'll keep nice and still, I promise." 

Athos knows that he won't, but keeps quiet on that topic. "Did you call the orphanage?" 

"Course I did," Porthos grumbles, and Athos looks at him for a long moment, before he notices Aramis' absence. 

"Where -" 

"Out, gettin' fresh vegetables to make soup," Porthos grumbles. "Wouldn't even let me come with him." 

Athos lifts both brows, and Porthos stares right back at him, daring him to point out yet again that he's supposed to be in bed. "You are a horrible patient," is all Athos says in the end. 

Porthos pulls a face at him. "I'm not." 

"Yes, you are. Aramis has no idea what horrors lie ahead of him. I just hope he will be spared the sight of you half unconscious on the bathroom floor, delirious with fever. I will never recover from that moment." 

Porthos grunts. "Don't be dramatic." 

"I am everything but," Athos says, and moves towards the kitchen area. "Do you want tea?" 

"I want coffee." 

"You are getting tea." Athos puts the kettle on accordingly, picks his favourite blend of herbal tea, and spoons a generous blob of honey into the can. 

The can is on the couch table by the time Aramis returns from his shopping trip, and Porthos is sipping from his favourite mug, holding it between his hands. His face brightens when Aramis comes into the room, and Aramis smiles back at him. They are sickeningly sweet, Athos decides, and gets Aramis' favourite mug out of the cupboard. "Were you successful?" 

"I brought a little bit of everything," Aramis replies, heaving two big shopping bags onto the counter. "Just in case." 

Athos peers into the bags and smirks. "Well done." 

"I missed you," Porthos says. "Athos was mean to me while you were away." 

"I find that very hard to believe," Aramis smiles, and takes his mug over to the couch. He refuses to join Porthos under his blanket, and strokes his fingers through Porthos' curls when he pouts at him. "You need to stay warm, Porthos." 

"You can help me do that." 

"But I need to get up and make your soup in a moment." 

"I don't want soup." 

"I will send you to your room if you keep bothering Aramis," Athos threatens, knowing full well how very empty a threat it is. 

Porthos knows it too. "No you won't." 

Athos rolls his eyes. "I wish you would at least try to be a better patient – for Aramis." 

"But I am!" Porthos insists, his demeanour that of a man wrongfully accused. "I stayed at home and everythin'!" 

Aramis and Athos share a glance, and Porthos growls. "Stop lookin' at each other like that!" 

Aramis smiles at him then, leans in and brushes a kiss to his cheek. "I didn't know you could be this cute." 

The gesture makes Porthos go still and close his eyes – makes him go soft and pliant in a way he usually doesn't allow himself to be when sick. Athos lifts both brows. Aramis might just have hit on a way to make this significantly easier for all of them.


	2. Chapter 2

"What the hell are you doing?" It's the middle of the night, and Athos came to the kitchen for a glass of water. He did not expect to find it occupied by Porthos, apparently in the process of making his famous carrot cake muffins. 

"I couldn't sleep," Porthos informs him, belligerently shredding carrots into a bowl already containing the wet mix ingredients for the muffins. Another bowl is standing a little to the left of him, and Athos knows that it contains just the right amount of flour, sieved and mixed with baking powder. It's cold in the room so long after sundown, and the only noise comes from the oven, diligently pre-heating at Porthos' back, and the endless grind-grind-grind of the carrots against the grater. 

Porthos is wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else, is barefoot on the hard-wood floor, and Athos wants to slap him. "Did you handcuff Aramis to the bed again?" 

Porthos grins, too bright and with a visible strain around the eyes, and shakes his head, does not stop the movement of his arm for even a second. "Nah, he's sleepin' like a baby tonight." 

Athos sighs. "Porthos." 

"What," is the querulous reply. "I couldn't sleep, so I got up! There's nothin' wrong with that!" 

Grind-grind-grind. 

"It is past midnight," Athos says, stepping closer to him. He takes off his dressing gown and drapes it over Porthos' naked shoulders. "I know you get restless when you are sick, but you really should take better care of yourself." 

Porthos, entirely unsurprising to Athos, stubbornly continues to shred carrots. "I'm fine," he insists. 

"You are cold," Athos points out softly. 

"No, I'm not." 

"Yes, you are." 

That's when Aramis appears, adorably ruffled, rubbing at his eyes. "Porthos? What are you doing? Why did you get up?" 

He sounds sleepy and not all there yet, and Athos cannot for the life of him understand why Porthos would leave him in bed all by himself. "Because he is insane," he says accordingly, albeit under his breath. 

"I'm makin' muffins," Porthos tells Aramis in a gruff voice. 

Aramis stops to stare at him, slowly lowering his hand. "What – now?" 

"Insane," Athos repeats softly. Porthos growls at him. 

"But you're sick!" Aramis exclaims, in case Porthos had managed to forget somehow. "You should be in bed!" 

"There," Athos tells Porthos in a low voice. "Listen to your boyfriend." 

"I'll go to bed once the muffins are in the oven," Porthos informs them obstinately. 

A warlike light rises in Aramis' eyes. He advances on Porthos, very swiftly for one just woken up, and pushes him away from the cooking isle. "Sit down on the couch, right now!" 

Porthos, bless his soul, actually tries to resist him. "But Aramis -" 

"Right now!" Aramis barks at him. He wraps Porthos in Athos' dressing gown, fastens its belt with uncompromising briskness, and pushes Porthos onto the couch, where he buries him under a mountain of blankets. "Stay!" 

Athos is duly impressed. So is Porthos. "What's gotten into you, kitten?" 

The soldierly light in Aramis' eyes dims a little, and he leans in to brush a kiss to Porthos' forehead. "I'm just looking out for you, the way you would for me." 

Apparently Porthos has no idea what to say to that. Athos has to hide a smirk – until Aramis comes back to the cooking isle. "We're going to finish this." 

Athos stares. "We are going to what?" 

On the couch at Aramis' back, Porthos shows alarming tendencies to rise. "If you dare get up," Aramis tells him without even glancing in his direction, "I am going to get the cuffs and all your ropes, and I am going to _tie you down_." He's flushing horribly once the words are out, but Athos doesn't doubt that he means every single one of them. As it turns out, Porthos doesn't doubt it either. He shrinks back into his nest of blankets, pulls up his shoulders, and pouts. Aramis nods, satisfied, and steps closer to the cooking isle to have a proper look at Porthos' recipe. 

The expression on his face fills Athos with awful foreboding. All he'd wanted was a glass of water. 

 

In the end it isn't all that bad. Whatever war-god has taken possession of Aramis' body this night, it's freelancing as a kitchen fairy on its day off. Also, Porthos had already done all the work. All they have to do is mix dry and wet ingredients until barely combined. Even Athos could have done that. Probably. 

They grease Porthos' collection of muffin cups, spoon the batter into them, and put them into the oven for 20 minutes. Once the timer is set, Aramis joins Porthos on the couch. "There. Do you feel better now?" 

Porthos is still pouting, and thus doesn't answer him. Athos rolls his eyes. Aramis smiles. "Fever makes you stupid, does it?" 

Porthos looks up at that, a little hurt and very indignant, and Aramis kisses his nose. "You're the sweetest." 

Athos watches them, and smiles. They both are. The sweetest. For the look of hurt indignation melts off Porthos' face, and he pulls Aramis into his arms, holds him tight and hides his expression against Aramis' chest. "Didn't know you could be this formidable." 

"For you I can," Aramis tells him softly. "For you I can do anything." 

It makes Athos' heart hurt, how much they love each other – how stupid and brave and human their loves makes them. He turns away from them to finally get his glass of water, and prepares to go back to his room. Aramis' voice stops him in his tracks. "I need you to come back to bed with us." 

Athos blinks at him, and his fingers tighten around the glass in his hand. "You do?" 

Aramis nods. "We need to fence him in. So he doesn't escape again." 

"Hey," Porthos protests vaguely – but he's grinning, doesn't even try to hide it. 

Athos fails to hold back a smile. "I see you have thought this through." 

"I'm learning from my mistakes," Aramis informs him, stroking his fingers through Porthos' curls. "So are you going to help me out?" 

"Of course," Athos says softly. He turns to carry his glass of water to Porthos' room instead of his own. "How could I ever fail you?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Do not give me that look. This is exclusively your own fault." Athos adjusts the scarf around Porthos' neck, and pulls his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. "Do you want something for your throat?" 

Porthos nods, and Athos unwraps a cough sweet for him, pops it into his mouth. "There. Now sit still and be quiet." Porthos glares at him, and Athos' expression softens. "Don't be like that. You know I want you to get better as quickly as possible." 

Porthos grumbles something unintelligible, and burrows deeper into the nest he has built for himself on the couch. He's dressed warmly for once, in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and one of his cardigans, completing the ensemble with woollen socks and a scarf Charon knitted for him last Christmas. He's sweaty and pale, and Athos knows that he should be in bed, but Athos also knows that Porthos will never consent to being incarcerated like that. Even now that he's lost his voice and can barely get dressed by himself, he's still the same stubborn idiot Athos has been cohabitating with for all these years. 

He can still walk, is the thing. As long as Porthos can still walk, he's perfectly healthy. At least in his own mind. 

Athos sighs, and prepares tea. It's not the first time he has to care for Porthos like this, and it certainly won't be the last, but he had gotten used to the idea of Aramis taking over most of the resulting duties. Now that Aramis has gone to the shop to execute some errand for Constance while she's away, Athos feels strangely off balance. Aramis should be here, is the thing. He is far better at alleviating Porthos' complaints. Naturally. He is Porthos' boyfriend, after all. 

Athos finishes his tea preparations, and then he returns to the couch, casts a critical glance over Porthos' wilting figure. "Are you hungry? There's still some soup." Porthos looks up at him then, frustrated and miserable, and Athos has to fight the urge to give him a hug. "I know you prefer food you have to chew, but with your throat being so sore -" Porthos shrugs and shakes his head, and Athos bites his lip. "You have to eat." 

Porthos shakes his head again, and Athos relents. "Alright. Not now. But sooner or later you have to." Another shrug, and Athos bites his tongue to hold back a frustrated groan. He returns to the kitchen area to get the tea, and then he carries it over to the couch table, fills a mug for Porthos and hands it to him. "Do you want to watch TV? A movie maybe?" Porthos shrugs again, and Athos puts on Brother Bear. That always makes Porthos feel better. 

He sits down on the couch afterwards, on the end furthest away from Porthos so as to not disturb his nest. He needn't have bothered. It takes Porthos about five minutes to migrate to Athos' end of the couch, to swamp him with blankets and manoeuvre his head into Athos' lap. 

"This is new," Athos comments softly, and lifts his hand to stroke his fingers through Porthos' sad mop of curls. "Finally admitting you are feeling poorly, yes?" Porthos produces a low grunt that could mean anything, and Athos smiles to himself. "Aramis is a very good influence on you." The first grunt is followed by a second, slightly lighter in tone. Athos huffs in amusement. "At least you are admitting that much." 

Porthos whines and cuddles up closer to him, and Athos resumes petting him. Aramis finds them like that when he returns from his errand, and waves Athos back down when he shows a tendency to get up and vacate his spot. "No, no – stay! You look so very comfortable like that. I'll join you in a minute." 

He vanishes out of sight and into the bathroom, and when Athos looks down he finds that Porthos is gazing at him out of soft brown eyes, warm and a little sad, too. "What is it?" Athos asks him, immediately worried. "What is going on?" 

Porthos lifts his hand out of his blanket then, and puts it around Athos' wrist. It doesn't do anything to dispense Athos' confused worry. "What is that supposed to mean?" 

Porthos' grip around his wrist tightens, and then Aramis is back, and asking how the convalescent is doing. "I am not sure we have reached that stage yet," Athos says softly, putting his hand over Porthos' on his wrist. "He is unusually clingy." 

"Because you tried to get up," Aramis says, staring at Athos as if he was a bit slow. "So sit tight, and I'm going to make you lunch. I brought stuff for smoothies, so Porthos can have something besides soup for once." 

That gets a noise of surprised delight out of Porthos, and a smile out of Athos. "That is a very good idea." 

"Isn't it?" Aramis beams at him, visibly proud of himself. He starts puttering around the kitchen, and Athos looks back down at Porthos, who's still holding on to his wrist. 

"I am not going anywhere," he says softly, stroking over the strong fingers encircling his arm. "I promise." 

Porthos smiles then, and turns on his side, pushing his face into the pullover covering Athos' belly. Athos can feel his breath through the fabric, and he holds his own for a moment, only lets it out when Aramis switches on the blender and drowns out all other sound. It is a moment of rare domestic bliss. Despite the shrieking kitchen appliance.


	4. Chapter 4

The painting is finished. All it needs is a frame, and Athos has already picked one out. He sighs, closes his eyes for a moment. He's in his room, dressed for painting in his usual hoodie and worn jeans, and he's feeling a little drained. Not as much as usual when he's just finished a painting, because he had to take breaks this time – regular ones, to eat and drink and sleep and care for Porthos – but the emotional toll is there all the same. 

He takes a deep breath, and then he steps back from the canvas, opens his eyes only when his butt brushes up against the door. He still likes what he sees. Really finished then. 

There's a muted knock on the door, followed by Aramis' voice. "Athos?" 

Athos smiles. "I am coming out. Give me a second." 

He takes a step forward, discards his paint-spattered clothes, changes swiftly, and then he joins Aramis in the hall. "What can I do for you?" 

"One of the regulars just called," Aramis says with a sigh. "She needs an adjustment on an evening gown, so I'm off to the store. Can you make sure Porthos doesn't do anything outrageous while I'm away? Like bungee-jump from the roof or something?" 

Athos lets out a little huff of amusement. "I shall do my very best – but I'm making no promises." 

Aramis smiles at him. "Fair enough." He gives Athos a hug, suddenly – a quick, fierce one, pushing his face into Athos' neck; and then he's off, down the hall and out the door, calling out to Porthos: promising to bring a treat back home just before he pulls the door shut behind him. Athos blinks. 

He walks down the hall and rounds the corner to the kitchen and living room area, where Porthos is huddling in his nest of blankets on the couch, reading a book. He puts that to the side when he sees Athos, and tilts his head. "Here to keep an eye on me?" 

His voice is still rough, but at least he can talk again. Athos never particularly enjoys the rare occasions when Porthos loses his voice. It's just a little too unsettling. Porthos is noise, laughter and warmth and movement, and Athos doesn't like when part of him is taken away like that. 

"I am here to make sure you do not need anything," Athos points out in a patient voice. "So: do you need anything?" 

"Aramis left me with a gallon of tea," Porthos rasps, indicating the can on the table. "I've just had a smoothie, and I'm wonderfully warm. So all you gotta do is join me on the couch. Maybe bring a cup, so you can help me drink all that tea." 

Athos hesitates, just for a second, and Porthos' expression turns grim. "Do you wanna have The Talk again?" 

Athos huffs. "No." 

"Then come here and gimme a snuggle." 

Athos huffs again, and does as he's told. "You are very demanding," he points out in a soft voice, while Porthos pulls him into his arms and more or less into his lap. "Whatever will Aramis think when he finds us like this again?" 

"That we like to cuddle," Porthos replies patiently. "It's not like he doesn't _know_ that." He strokes his hands over Athos' shoulders, over his sides, over his back and belly, and Athos goes utterly still. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Warmin' you up," Porthos murmurs. "You always get so cold when you paint – pouring all your warmth into your pictures like that." 

Athos closes his eyes and pushes into his touch, allows himself to relax. "I hadn't noticed." 

"You never do." 

There's a moment of silence, where Athos focusses on nothing but Porthos' hands on him. 

"You finished now?" Porthos asks then, his voice low, and Athos nods. 

"Yes." 

"Good. You were takin' long with this one. I was gettin' worried." 

"No. You were not. Aramis was." 

"Same thing." 

"Is it?" Athos realizes how faint and far away he sounds the moment the words are out of his mouth. 

The movement of Porthos' hands over his body stops. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"You did not seem one entity to me, that is all," Athos says, doing his best to add a spark of humour to his voice. 

Porthos relaxes. "You're a fool. In case you'd forgotten, oh lifelong friend o' mine: you an' me are the two-headed entity in this household. Aramis isn't used to your cave-painter antics yet. He misses you when you hide yourself in your room for days on end … reminds me that I miss you, too." 

He pulls Athos properly into his lap at that point, and snuggles his face into Athos' chest. It makes Athos feel remarkably peculiar. Unreal, in a way. "I am right here," he reminds Porthos. "I always am. You know that." 

"I do," Porthos murmurs into Athos' pullover. "It's just that you get weird sometimes – as if me bein' with Aramis suddenly turned me into someone you can no longer talk to, or cuddle with, and it feels like you're slippin' away from us." 

He's very hoarse when he reaches the end of that speech, and Athos puts his hands on his shoulders to push him away and thus make him look up. Once Porthos does, Athos puts his hands to his cheeks, strokes his thumbs back and forth over Porthos' stubble. "I am not slipping away," he says, a solemn quality to his voice. "I am just … trying to find my place with you – you and Aramis, I mean." Porthos looks doubtful, and a little suspicious, and Athos heaves an exasperated sigh. "Me staying in my room to paint is nothing new or out of the ordinary." 

Porthos' expression remains the same. Athos pinches his cheeks. "Alright. Come on then. I need to show you something." He gets off Porthos' lap, helps Porthos stand up, and then he takes his hand. 

"You're makin' me very nervous," Porthos reports – nervously. 

"You have only yourself to blame," Athos drawls. He pulls Porthos along the hall and towards his room, opens the door with his free hand. 

The canvas is standing in the very corner of the room, facing the door, catching as much light as possible from the big windows. Porthos' throat makes a little noise as soon as he sees the picture. Athos keeps pulling at him, nevertheless, pulls him into his room and right to the spot where he always stands while painting. "There," he says, still holding Porthos' hand. 

A long moment of silence follows. 

"Do you think Aramis will like it?" Athos asks eventually. 

Porthos clears his throat. "He's gonna love it." He still sounds suspiciously hoarse. 

"You are not crying, are you?" Athos teases him in a doomed attempt to lighten the mood. 

"A little," Porthos admits. "But you knew I would, didn't you?" 

Athos squeezes his hand. "Do you like it that much?" 

Porthos doesn't usually go for abstract paintings, Athos knows that, but then again - 

"There's a dragon in there," Porthos murmurs, reaching out as if he wants to touch the canvas, stopping himself at the last moment. "A dragon, and you, and me, and Aramis. I love it." He pulls Athos into his arms and gives him a good, long squeeze. 

"I want to put it over the couch," Athos says. "If you do not mind, that is." 

"Puttin' your warmth out there for everyone to see?" Porthos murmurs into his shoulder, stroking his hands over Athos' back. "Whatever will people think?" 

Athos closes his eyes. Huffs. "Frankly, my dear -" 

The rest is cut off by Porthos' explosive salvo of laughter.


End file.
